The Trouble With Dying

by Maggie Le Page

  I frown. And that’s it. I don’t know anything about Nate beyond the snippets I’ve garnered within this hospital ward.

  I haul my head back inside my room so I won’t be able to see any more nurses fluttering their eyelashes at my visitor. My jaw’s locked so darn tight I’ve got the beginnings of a headache.

  And I bet there’s no such thing as paracetamol for ghosts, dammit.

  Faith-in-the-bed’s chest continues its regular rise and fall pattern. If only for her, I need to relax. She’s got enough to deal with, without giving her a tension headache as well.

  I close my eyes, inhale deep and slow, exhale, then repeat, and repeat again, until the headache begins to dissipate—and, with it, my anger. I need to get a grip. Why would I ever feel anger towards the very nurses who are helping me stay alive?

  Jealousy, that’s all it is. A petty, parasitic emotion, and it’ll bleed all the positivity out of me if I’m not careful. I don’t even have the right to feel jealous. I’m in a coma, for Pete’s sake, unable to share any kind of special with Nate, gorgeous or not.

  Besides, our special something ended years ago.

  And now I’m married. To someone else.

  Then Nate comes into my room and everything I’ve just told myself goes out the window. My breath hitches and my body warms; the same treacherous way as always.

  He stops just inside the door and looks for long seconds at Faith-in-the-bed. Then, like that moment when you suddenly realise winter is here, I notice his expression has changed. The sexy smile, casual attitude and warmth are gone, and in their place is a dark, heavy mood.

  Nate leans against the door until it closes. His eyes remain locked on her face. His mouth sets. The grooves in his face deepen. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Tilts his face, as if seeking answers from above.

  Long seconds later he finally releases his breath, opens his eyes and throws Faith-in-the-bed a look of—resentment?

  Why? Where’s the charming corridor version?

  Nate drags the chair with his foot, sits. Stares at a point halfway down the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  Sullen silence.

  I glide down to face him. “I know you don’t like hospitals. Is that it?” I pause. “No?”

  He swivels away from the bed, away from me, and scowls at the wall.

  I wait a few beats, increasingly uneasy. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

  It has to be. He was fine in the corridor. This Jeckyl-and-Hyde thing only happened once he was in here with Faith-in-the-bed. Why, though? Is this anger towards my attacker? Frustration over my condition? A sense of impotence? Guilt?

  Poor man. None of this is his fault.

  “Want to talk about it?” I ask gently.

  He surges to his feet, sending the chair skating backwards.

  I jerk back, startled. And Nate’s looking every bit as startled. He stands motionless, looking left and right, breathing heavily, like a boxer absorbing a blow.

  Eventually he pulls himself to his full height. Rotates his shoulders, stretches his neck, then walks to the window, only to stare down at the park with such bitterness I feel sorry for the trees.

  “Hey,” I say, pretending he can hear, “thanks for taking Tess to the park yesterday. She loved it.”

  He becomes still. So still he’s barely breathing. Did he . . . is he . . . hearing me?

  Just in case, I keep talking. I feel a bit self-conscious, but it gets easier as I continue. This must be the way he feels when he’s monologuing with Faith-in-the-bed.

  “You’re great with her, Nate. She thinks the world of you.”

  He swings around, his expression intense.

  A pulse works in his throat. Tick, tick, tick. I stare at it, mesmerised. It’s keeping time with my own heartbeat. The urge to feel it beneath my fingertips grows. Finally, unable to resist, I reach out and touch a finger to the dark hollow of his throat.

  And feel nothing.

  Well, of course I feel nothing. What did I expect?

  Nate jerks his head to the side, away from my finger.

  I gasp, blink, swallow. Whatever I expected, it wasn’t that.

  Coincidence or . . . ? I do it again and—

  There. Frowning, he rubs a hand over the exact spot I’ve just touched.

  My heart is lodged in my throat and beating so hard I’m close to choking. “Nate, it’s me.”

  “Christ,” he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Keep it real.”

  He senses me; I know he does. “Don’t talk yourself out of this. Please, Nate. Hear me.”

  With a guttural groan he clamps the heel of each hand to his temples. Squeezes.

  I wish I could hold him, touch him, smooth the exhaustion from his face.

  “This is real, Nate. I’m right beside you.”

  He swears under his breath. Starts pacing the tiny room. “Get out of my head, Pix.”

  Is he hearing me, or sensing me, or just thinking about me? Whichever it is, it’s a door and I’m going to kick my way in. Please, God.

  “Nate,” I say. “Don’t block me out. Please. Talk to me. Help me wake up.”

  Back and forth he strides, all caged tiger, muttering as he goes. “. . . Nuts . . . decent night’s sleep . . .”

  He pauses mid-stride to glare at Faith-in-the-bed. Resumes the pacing and the muttering. “Mind-games . . . promised . . . over . . .”

  I pace with him. “Stop talking yourself out of this. Come on, Nate, how can I connect with you if you won’t let yourself listen?”

  He’s hearing me, or feeling me, or something—I know he is. Stupid man. If a six-year-old can see me and hear me and accept me as real, it should be a cinch for a brawny, intelligent guy like Nate.

  His pacing tails off and he slumps against the wall, eyes closed, arms loose. The rise and fall of his chest gradually slows, and I force my own breathing slower too.

  Come on, I will him. Feel me. Hear me.

  “No,” he says through clenched teeth.

  He turns one hundred and eighty degrees and pushes his forehead against the wall. Then, cursing, he throws open the bathroom door and strides inside. The door slams shut behind him.

  Silence.

  I feel suddenly tearful. Bloody men.

  “Leave him be,” murmurs Gran at my side.

  My lip quivers. “He’s blocking me out. I need him to hear me, Gran. How do I get through to him?”

  “You already have, Faith. He just needs time. Time to understand and accept.”

  “I don’t have time.” Hands on hips, I transfer my agitation to her. “You told me that yourself.”

  “Yes, I did. But it’s a lot to take in, for someone like him.”

  For someone with a thing against any spooky ‘mumbo-jumbo’, she means. I think about the way he blocked his mother and my resolve wavers. Maybe I shouldn’t have reached out to him.

  Too late. I did.

  I hope he’s okay . . .

  Before I can change my mind, I merge through the wall. A quick check, that’s all, then I’ll leave him in peace.

  He’s standing at the basin, head bowed, gripping the bowl in a straight-armed hold. He’s like a volcano; the pressure’s building and it’s not a question of if so much as when he’s going to erupt.

  He lifts his head and stares at himself in the mirror. The tendons in his neck are thick with tension. Abruptly, he turns on the cold tap and douses his face.

  I want to connect with him again, show him he’s not crazy and it’s all very real—but I can’t do that to him. He’s barely coping as it is. Instead I watch, feeling like an intruder.

  He stares into his own anguished eyes. Water drips unnoticed down his chin and onto his t-shirt.

  “Sorry, Nate,” I whisper, then slip back through the wall, giving him the privacy he needs.

  # # #

  His eyes haunt me.

  The pain . . . the heartache . . . the anger . . .

  “Nate. Please. Gi
ve me a chance.”

  “A chance? Give you a chance? I loved you.”

  He’s angry as a bull but it’s the pain in his eyes that undoes me. Pressure builds in my chest.

  “I went to Hell and back on that job,” he says, “and the only thing that kept me going was you, Faith. You.”

  My eyes fill. A gulping sob escapes.

  “And I get back to this.” He grabs my left hand, shoves it in the air between us. “Married.”

  He drops my hand.

  “Nate, I—”

  “Can you imagine how that feels?” he demands. “Can you?”

  Yes, I can. Something like I felt when he disappeared from my life with no explanation, perhaps?

  Anger and hurt battle inside me. How to answer him? How to make this right?

  I can’t make this right. Nothing about this will ever be right.

  Tess skips into the room, jolting me back to the present.

  She looks up at me. “Hi, Mummy.” Then, head to one side, “You look sad.”

  I drag in a breath. Force a smile. “No, no, I’m not sad. How are you, darling?”

  “Okay.”

  Nate emerges, towelling his face. “Hey, Tessabelle. What’s up?”

  She turns to him with her usual grin.

  “Want a chocolate muffin? Me and Nan just made some. Yours is gi-normous,” she adds in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Great. I can’t wait.” His smile is warm, but his eyes don’t have their usual sparkle.

  Mum arrives, basket in hand, smile on face.

  “Morning, Kathy.” He tosses the towel through the bathroom door. “What’s this I hear about muffins?”

  Mum answers, but I barely hear. I’m eyeing up his towel, wishing I could pick it up and fold it over the rail.

  And what’s with all these ridiculous tidy-up urges I’m getting? Have I always been like this, or is it some peculiarity of being stuck halfway between life and death?

  My throat tightens. A subconscious need to tidy before I die, perhaps?

  I force my focus back to Mum.

  “. . . treat. Besides—” she shoots him a smile “—my backup babysitter deserves to be spoilt.”

  “Kathy, it’s no bother at all. We’re going to have fun, aren’t we, Tess?”

  Tess grins up at him with something close to adoration in her eyes. “Yep.”

  “Let’s eat these down in the visitor lounge,” says Mum. “Less mess in Mummy’s room.”

  Tess pouts. “Can’t we just eat them here? With Mummy?”

  “We’ll be back in a few minutes,” Mum reassures her. “She’ll be fine while we’re gone.”

  Tess looks up at me questioningly. I give her a reassuring nod.

  “Besides,” continues Mum, “we’re not really supposed to bring food in here. This ward is called Intensive Care and there are lots of rules we have to follow. Rules to keep Mummy as healthy as possible.”

  “They’re yummy muffins, Mummy. Sorry you can’t eat one.” Her cheek dimples.

  I laugh. “You mean, yay because there’s more for you?”

  Her dimple deepens and she breaks into a grin. Then it slides from her face, replaced with a frown. “Mummy, you must be so hungry.”

  I shake my head and open my mouth to answer, but Mum’s already speaking.

  “Mummy’s not hungry, darling. She’s being fed special food through this little hose.” Mum indicates the IV line, hooked up to the bag.

  Tess looks at the IV line. Her mouth turns down. She glances up at me, down once more at the IV line, across at Faith-in-the-bed. Too much information, perhaps?

  Finally Tess speaks. “I bet that doesn’t taste like lemonade.”

  We all erupt in laughter.

  “I bet you’re right,” says Nate.

  “Come on,” says Mum, making for the door. “Let’s eat these gi-normous muffins.”

  As promised, it’s only minutes before they return. Mum loops her handbag over her shoulder. “I’ll leave the rest of the muffins for you two, okay?”

  Tess says a resounding, “Yay!”

  Mum smiles at her grand-daughter, then turns to Nate. “Thanks for this. I appreciate it. I’ll only be a couple of hours.”

  He shakes his head. “Kathy, it’s not a problem. Take the day.”

  “No, no, I’ll—”

  “I mean it. Take some time for yourself. Sleep, watch a movie, go for a walk, whatever. Don’t rush. We’re under control here.” He ruffles Tess’s hair. “Isn’t that right, Tessabelle?”

  For a moment Mum looks like she’s going to cry.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  She cups Tess’s face in her hands. “Be good for Uncle Nathan,” she says, and kisses her nose.

  Then, with a mouthed ‘thank you’ for Nate, she leaves.

  “Well, Squirt. How about we hang out here with Mummy for a while, then we’ll go do something special?”

  “Okay.” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing a long chocolate-y stripe along her cheek. “What kind of special?”

  “The kind of special that probably needs a clean face,” I say with a chuckle, and she giggles.

  “A just-the-two-of-us kind of special.”

  But I don’t hear her response because my ears are roaring with realisation. At last! Here it is: the perfect opportunity for me to be heard by Nate—via Tess.

  Adrenalin surges through my body—then, close on its heels, indecision; because I’ve already got Nate spooked.

  No, I have to try. If I play this right it could save my life.

  And if I screw it up?

  My stomach flips at the thought. If I screw it up I’d better get used to being dead.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Let’s draw a masterpiece for Mummy,” says Nate.

  “Cool!” Tess skips to her bag and pulls out some colouring pens and paper. “What’s a masterpiece?”

  He chuckles. “A special picture your mum will love forever.”

  “Like . . .” She looks up at me. “What should I draw?”

  “How about one of you looking really happy?” I say.

  “A smiley me?”

  “Great idea,” says Nate. “You’re a masterpiece, for sure.”

  I love the warmth in his voice. He’s amazing with my wee girl. Just amazing.

  She begins her self-portrait. A big, round, smiling purple face. She fills in the eyes with blue, reddens the smile. Runs bunches of long yellow hair from one side of the head to the other, adds bows. Tess stops and looks down at her floral top and candy-floss-pink leggings. Adds a triangular top to her picture, liberally decorated with flowers.

  “Hey, Tess,” I say, my tone carefully casual. “Want to tell Uncle Nate how clever you are?”

  She turns to me, incomprehension on her face.

  “You know: that you can see me up here. That we talk whenever you visit.”

  Her eyes light up. She nods vigorously at me then hurriedly adds hot-pink legs and feet, colouring them solid.

  “Finished,” she says, thrusts it at Nate and jumps to her feet, jiggling in anticipation.

  “Nice job,” says Nate, but Tess doesn’t respond; she’s deep in thought.

  Her feet still. Her brow creases.

  Uh-oh.

  She bites her lip and looks my way. “Nan-Nan says—”

  I throw Nate a quick glance.

  “Stop.” I cut across her words. “Go to the bathroom.”

  Whatever Nan-Nan says—and, knowing her, it could be anything—I’d like to know what it is before she announces it in front of Nate.

  “Says what?” prompts Nate.

  Tess looks at me, affronted, and it takes me a moment to work out why: I’ve told her, a nearly-seven-year-old, to go to the toilet.

  I indicate the ensuite door with a sharp head-jerk. “Bathroom. Talk to me in there.”

  Her face lightens. She mouths an ‘Oh’.

  “Back in a second,” she says, and dives into the ensuit
e, snipping the lock.

  I merge through to the bathroom with her. “What does Nan-Nan say?”

  “That I shouldn’t tell anyone I see dead people.”

  Wise advice in a world of sceptics. It makes me wonder if Tess ever tried to tell me—and how I responded.

  “Darling.” I come down to her level and look her in the eyes. “I need Uncle Nate to know the truth about this. He might be able to help me wake up. So let’s give it a go, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I quash my nerves and throw her a reassuring smile. “Ready?”

  She nods.

  “And if someone else turns up we’ll stop and try again later.”

  Another nod. Her face clouds over again. “What if he doesn’t believe me?”

  “We’ll make him believe,” I say, crossing everything because there’s a good chance I’ve already pushed him too far on this. “All you have to do is talk to him, explain how it works. You let me worry whether he’s believing it or not.”

  That seems to satisfy her.

  “Flush the toilet before you leave,” I say.

  She giggles, flushes, and unlocks the door. “Hey, Uncle Nate, I can see Mummy.”

  I groan. Not exactly subtle.

  My hand warms and my pulse leaps, and before I’ve even merged back through I know Nate has clasped Faith-in-the-bed’s hand.

  “Mm-hmm,” says Nate, but his mind is elsewhere.

  “No, not there,” she says. “Here.” And she points up at me.

  His body tenses. His eyes narrow.

  Okay, she has his attention now. I hold my breath.

  For a moment he says nothing, but I notice the staccato pulse in his temple. “Really?”

  “Uh-huh.” She does an excited little can’t-keep-still jig. “She talks to us all the time.”

  “But, Tessabelle,” he says, his voice gentle, “Mummy’s in a coma.”

  She shrugs. “I know.”

  He clears his throat. “I . . . see. And—” he slants a glance at Faith-in-the-bed “—how does Mummy manage to be in two places at once?”

  “I don’t know.” She looks up at me. “Mummy, how do you do that?”

  “It just happens, darling. Tell Uncle Nate I’ll get back in my body as soon as I work out how.”

  Tess passes it on.